


Love Me and Mend

by londonstyles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Drunk Bellamy, F/M, Fluff, Minor Bellamy Blake/Raven Reyes, One Shot, Poetry, Slow Burn Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Sorry Not Sorry, im bellarke trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonstyles/pseuds/londonstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke leaving Bellamy behind hit him harder than he thought. First he turned to moonshine, then to words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me and Mend

_My throat is burning,_  
_My breath is ragged,_  
_My chest is caving in,_  
_My lungs won’t fill with air._

_My bones are aching,_  
_My muscles scream with fatigue._  
_The marrow is leaking out,_  
_I’m left as a hollow shell._

_My heart, Clarke, my heart,_  
_It just doesn’t beat the same._  
_My pulse ebbs rather than flows,_  
_And my blood runs cold._

_Your voice echoes in my mind,_  
_I’m blinded by visions of blue and burning gold._  
_Only when you’re near me again,_  
_Will my body begin to mend._

Bellamy leaned back on his heels with a sigh, a weight lifted off his chest now that the words were out.

After Clarke had left, leaving him and everyone else behind, his feelings began to build. Slowly at first, then at a colossal speed. It had felt like a tornado was ripping him apart from the inside out, and he had absolutely no idea what to do. Anger, grief, frustration, abandonment. A tidal wave of emotion destined to drown him.

That is, until Monty made his first batch of moonshine since their return from Mount Weather. Every one had gotten knock out drunk, and for that night all of the feelings of hurt, anger, and sadness were silenced from Bellamy’s mind.

It was sweet, blessed relief. But then he woke up the next morning with a hangover for the books pounding against his skull, and the tornado was back and begging to be let out. 

Bellamy had just been short of banging his head hard enough against his makeshift table to knock himself out when his eyes landed on half empty cup of moonshine that he hadn’t finished before passing out the night before. He downed it without a second thought, and all of the noise in his head went away again.

When Clarke had left him standing at the gates of Camp Jaha, broken and bruised, she told him to have a drink for her. So he did – and then some. Every time the harsh burn of the moonshine hit his throat, her words echoed in his head and he just drank more until her voice was silent.

It escalated to the point where it was rare for Bellamy to have a sober moment. He was living in a drunken stupor. Most people around the camp just looked at him with sad eyes before averting their gaze – not wanting to see the Rebel King brought down to his knees in such a pitiful manner.

Bellamy would have preferred if they hadn’t looked away – if they would have just put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger and put an end to his reign.

In the end it was Raven who whipped him back into shape. Bellamy was having one of his lowest moments where he barely made it out of his tent in the morning without throwing up. Raven saw and marched right up to him as if she wasn’t permanently disabled and reliant on a brace to help her walk.

“Jesus Christ, Blake,” she said, staring down at him. There was no concern in her eyes – just determination. It was refreshing. “It’s time for you to get yourself together.”

“I will,” Bellamy said, his voice muffled as he wiped at his mouth. “Tomorrow.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Raven huffed. “Now get off your ass before I do it for you.”

“Raven . . .”

“Bellamy,” Raven sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t make me give you the speech that I gave Finn. Seriously, why am I always the one who is picking up all of your broken pieces?”

Bellamy sighed and slowly stood up. “We all have battle scars . . .”

“Suck it up and build a brace for yours,” Raven finished. A small smile found its way onto her lips and her voice softened as she spoke. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

It took a while for Bellamy to figure things out. Someone would mention Clarke, or Mount Weather, and it would stir up everything deep in his stomach and he would itch for a drink. But then he’d remember that it wasn’t going to do anyone any good, and in the back of his mind he knew Raven would kick his ass if she found him drunk again.

Bellamy knew he had to find a way to feel better that didn’t involve extreme intoxication. He had to get his feelings _out_ instead of letting them fester and spread through him like a deadly infection. 

People had said that a good way to feel better was to speak about what you were feeling. Confiding in someone, putting your feelings into words. Just getting them out. And if there was one thing that Bellamy knew he had a lot of, it was words. He was comfortable making grand speeches, inspiring masses, and he definitely wasn’t afraid to speak his mind to the council. But he didn’t know how to speak to someone about the things that haunted him at night, that followed him into his dreams.

This all lead to Bellamy being where he was now, leaning back on his heels with words scrawled in the dirt in front of him. It started when he was in the woods hunting for game. He had wandered away from the camp, but wasn’t too far away when he stumbled upon a small pond. It was peaceful, the light reflecting off the water in an ethereal way, and the trees felt as if they were breathing.

Bellamy had a feeling, deep down, that Clarke had been there. If he knew her as well as he thought he did, she wouldn’t have strayed far away from camp. She would go far enough to have some space and to clear her head, but not so far that she wouldn’t be within a days walk from camp. She couldn’t truly abandon her people.

It hit him then, like a bucket of cold water over his head, that he really wanted to talk to Clarke. She knew him as well as he knew her. But of course she wasn’t there, so he sat down and began to write in the dirt with his finger. This became a routine. He would go back to the pond and let the words out. Sometimes they flowed out of him – his finger unable to keep up with his thoughts – but sometimes nothing would come out and he would just swipe at the dirt angrily.

_Only when you’re near me again,  
Will my body begin to mend._

Bellamy looked down at the words, the only evidence that he had written them was the dirt under his fingernail, and let them sink in.  
Standing up with sigh, Bellamy was about to swipe at the words with his foot when he heard rustling in the trees surrounding him. He perked up a little bit, and set out with his gun ready. If he was lucky, he would go back to camp with a fresh deer. Everyone would be ecstatic. 

It wasn’t until later, when the adrenaline of the hunt wore off and the cool air began to settle upon them for the evening, that he remembered that he’d left his jacket on the ground where he had been sitting by the pond.

Bellamy swore, before he set off to go back into the woods. He was tired and ready to go to bed. The last thing he wanted to do was go find his god damn _jacket_ in the woods.

He set out through the woods and trudged through the underbrush. He grumbled to himself and kept his eyes on the ground. The last thing he needed was to step in some abandoned trap in the dark.

Only when he got to the pond, looking the same yet different with the moon reflecting off of its surface rather than the sun, did he look up from his feet.

What he saw was the furthest thing from what he had expected.

Clarke was kneeling on the ground; his jacket clutched in her hands and her mouth whispering the words he’d left written on the ground.  
The words that he’d forgot to wipe away when he went off in a hurry to hunt.

“Clarke . . .” Her name came out like a sigh. Bellamy wasn’t even sure if he’d spoken or thought her name to himself.

But Clarke heard him, the breeze had carried his voice to her, and she looked up at him. She blinked, looking as if she was trying to wake up from a dream. “Bellamy?”

One time, long ago, Bellamy promised himself that he would never take anything from Clarke that she didn’t willingly give to him. But in that moment, with Clarke staring at him with a look of peace on her face and hair bleached white from the moon, Bellamy ran towards her and enveloped her in his arms.

He pressed his nose into her hair, smelling her, touching her, just to make sure she was real and not an illusion. Clarke’s nose was cold against his neck, and Bellamy suddenly felt like he’d woken up from a dream.

He held his breath until Clarke wrapped her arms around him. She took in a shuddering breath before pulling away, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Did you write that?”

Bellamy swallowed, then nodded – not sure if he was capable of words.

“It’s beautiful,” Clarke smiled. “But sad . . . did my leaving really make you feel that way?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy answered, his voice rough with emotion. “We were a team, and you just left. The moment when I needed you the most, you left me by myself. It was rough.”

“Bellamy, I’m – I’m so sorry,” Clarke moved closer and lifted a hand to touch Bellamy’s face. Her fingers shook as they brushed over scars, old and new. “I didn’t know it would be like that for you.”

Bellamy let out a shuddering breath. Both her words and her proximity made Bellamy feel as if he just backed away from a ledge that only lead to his death.

“I missed you, Bellamy,” she said, her breath fluttering against his cheeks. “I missed everyone, but you the most. Everything you did . . . we wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

“We’ve all missed you at camp,” he answered. “Your mom, Jasper, Monty, it hit Raven really hard . . . And me.”

Clarke pulled away slowly, running her fingers over his arm. She turned back to the words that Bellamy had etched into the ground. “I think I’m ready to come back.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Clarke nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “But tell me something, are these last lines for poetic purposes, or are they true?”

Bellamy gave her a crooked grin and moved to look over her shoulder to look at the words he’d written earlier. “Let me see . . . _Only when you’re near me again, will my body begin to mend._ I don’t know.”

“They sound awfully sentimental, coming from someone like you.”

“I did get some inspiration,” Bellamy admitted.

“Shakespeare?” Clarke laughed. “Typical.”

“Don’t mock me. You knew where it came from.”

“ _Serve God, love me, and mend_ ,” Clarke nodded before turning back around to face him. “One of my favorites. But really, is that how you feel?”

“I think so, yes,” Bellamy said slowly, reluctant to admit his feelings. He rubbed the back of his neck before meeting her eyes again.

Clarke stepped closer and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. She only pulled back slightly, when she spoke her lips brushed against his skin. “Well then, Bellamy, love me and mend.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a slow work in progress, and I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. Really, I wrote the poem in the beginning when I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get the words out of my head. I am NOT a poet, and poetry is not my forte, but alas, here it is.  
> Enjoy!  
> you can find me on tumblr and londonstyless.tumblr.com


End file.
